


with trembling hands

by phialyn



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bilingual Lance (Voltron), Coran(Voltron)-centric, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Gen, Homesick Lance (Voltron), Hurt Lance (Voltron), Langst, Major Character Injury, Mental Instability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 22:13:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16773934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phialyn/pseuds/phialyn
Summary: Lance says, “I feel like I’m dying,”“You’re not,” Coran states, but his voice breaks, so he repeats it, firmer. “You’re not.”Lance saved the world, but he's only a child. Coran is reminded of this in all the wrong ways.





	with trembling hands

**Author's Note:**

> _stars number in the billions, countless_   
>  _all alone, he is but the sum of one_   
>  _staring back, hands trembling._   
>  _-Fehlmann_

_In His Gentle Soul, Part One_

Coran meets Lance and it’s odd, to say the least. Or perhaps a bit like a memory. Lance bounds around the castle, a grin twisting his cheeks as he speaks and asks and wonders—space is so unfamiliar, vast and engulfing, begging to be explored. Coran finds that Lance is a bit like he was, when he was younger. It’s a memory, something nostalgic and the smallest bit painful. A world seen in the eyes of a hopeful, faithful boy that seems too long ago to be reality. Coran supposes it’s a sign of old age—old age seems to be the excuse for everything, nowadays.

Lance is a little sun, a little light for those around him. Coran would’ve called him so, yet settled with _Number Four_ , as a unique nickname would’ve been playing favorites, and favorites don’t exist in a universe as cruel as this one. Despite that, Coran finds it safe to say that he enjoys the pleasantries of Lance’s company more than most. Lance reminds him of a time when things were better. Not _good_ , never _good_ , but better—as even his most fond memories of Altea are foreign to him now; the dreams he has of children frolicking in endless fields of flowers wake him with a chill seeping through his ribs and a bitter taste in his mouth.

Maybe the haze of the pod had garbled his memory a bit. Or something had, something so drastically heart-rending that the moment he had heard it he had refused to accept it.

Not something, _someone_.

However, he never dwells on _someone_ for too long, as the universe needs him as much as it needs the rest of them, and to the universe _someone_ doesn’t exist anymore. So he must fight along with the rest, perhaps not on the front lines as he did when he was younger but behind the scenes, graphing and charting with Alfor’s daughter by his side, working relentlessly until _someone_ fades from his mind, _but she hasn’t she hasn’t_ —he doesn’t want to _remember_ any more, he just wants to scream until he drowns out his thoughts, wants to rake gaping holes in his memories, wants to pound his head in so he doesn’t have to think, wants to rip his nightmares from his mind—

In some ways, Coran wishes the universe had erased him along with _someone_ —though he, too, blames those thoughts on the many decades he has lived, so many he can hardly count them anymore, or even bear to.

Coran has been lost in his thoughts again, it seems. He’s been rubbing the same spot on the wall with a worn cloth, over and over, despite the water having dripped out of it long ago. He realizes this absentmindedly, suddenly depleted of his boundless energy, yet does not move to another section of the wall. He continues to scrub with the cloth, in circular motions, spheres of lukewarm soap with same consistent perimeter, the same width, the same height, like a well-oiled machine. He could have a bot do this, of course, with Altean technology at his beck and call, but cleaning is an enjoyable distraction. He can call it a hobby, at this point.

After a while, his fingers feel raw. He isn’t wearing his favorite pair of gloves, they have holes in them. Lance had said he would patch them up, he remembers. _Lance_. That’s who he was thinking about.

Lance is a little sun. Coran hopes he’ll burn forever. Or burn close by at least, so Coran will have some light while he works. It is pleasant when someone listens, and it is pleasant when someone speaks. Lance seems to have pleasant down pat. In fact, he is good at lots of things; he’s a wonderful boy, really, though a bit impulsive and attention-seeking at times—but those characteristics make him all the more intriguing—how is it that humans describe these sort of things? A breath of fresh air.

The paladins are, truly, nice company. They indulge in his rambles and support him with pleasurable friendliness, so much so that in the short weeks as ‘The Paladins of Voltron’ they have come to be family. They support Allura as well, holding her up, bearing some of the weight that had been so carelessly flung upon her shoulders, surviving in a war they’d been fated to fight. They’ve done so much for them, those children. They’re doing so much—it is unfair.

They’ve been taken away from their home, the place of shimmering aquamarine, verdant lush forests, stretches of golden sands, towering mountains with frosty tips—and to Coran, it feels a little like stealing.

_In His Gentle Soul, Part Two_

The blue-tinted glass of the cockpit separates him from an indigo sky; the metal framework withholds whirlpools of fire in the distance, and beams that almost seem like shooting stars; each burst of purple light is followed by those engulfing flames, like little crimson suns consuming themselves in the vast expanse of space.

Alarms scream at him like impatient children, before quieting under his flitting hands. Though, with each mechanical whir of the castle and rumble of explosion in the distance a new sound emerges, and he must press another button, flick another switch. It’s maddening.

Behind him, Allura stands, eyes hardened like crystal, gleaming, sharp. In her battle armor, the princess seems ethereal, her pearly tresses clipped back elegantly, her shoulders held back, her palms unnaturally steady; though, despite her composed facade, sweat gleams above her brow, reflecting like dewdrops on a petal. When she opens her mouth Coran notices the dimple by her chin. _She’s much too young for this,_ he thinks, _yet just old enough._ He wishes for her to grow without war. He wishes for her to have laugh lines instead of worry lines, to buy a home in the country and grow a garden with her parents by her side. Yet that is impossible, of course. He exhales through his nose. His dreams seem more like fantasies nowadays, because of the sheer absurdity of them.

 _“Lance’s got her!”_ Hunk proclaims, though doesn’t elaborate.

Followed by the yellow paladin’s hurried words is another blast, with ricochets against the castle in bursts. Coran can feel the tremor in his bones, like the rumbling beats of a drum. Behind him, his ancient machines whisper, in words he can’t understand.

“Lance, do you have her on the line?” Allura asks sternly, posture ridgid with stress, “Can she hear me?”

When two Galra ships collide, they carve a violet hole in the sky, before the hue collapses into something darker, something that stirs the deep pool of Coran’s memories. _Purple_. A familiar color, one he can easily recall. In the back of his mind, Coran sees his home in full bloom: buds blossom brilliantly, coating the earth and surrounding his feet; flecks of pollen float about, twirling amongst the breeze, brushing against each other, dancing.

 _“She’s panicking!”_ Lance’s voice cuts in, warbled from the poor connection. _“Hey, sweetheart, don’t—”_

“Calm her,” Allura commands, “Don’t fool around!”

A streak of ebony and a muffled shout, before a Galran ship is crushed beneath blasts as blinding as comets, which leave patterns beneath Coran’s eyelids when he blinks. Shiro states an order, but it’s lost to the crackle of the coms.

 _“It’ll be alright,”_ Lance says faintly, though he could’ve said something else, as it was too muffled to be properly deciphered.

Allura’s hands jerk forward and the castle twists on its axis, narrowly missing a stray blast of Galra fire. Enemy ships twirl by in neat formations, turning in graceful arches and twisting through narrow paths between stars. Coran’s knees lock when the lights flicker and the floor shudders. On the hazy horizon, something roars, like an ancient beast waking from its slumber.

 _“We’re here to help you.”_ Lance pleads.

The red lion spins near one of the castle’s windows, dodging a neon violet beam. The sleek starboard side of a battleship curls, before it is torn to bits by metal claws, collapsing inward like a vessel sinking in the sea. Galran passengers are sent spiraling out into open space with bits of sharp debris, before they drown in the emptiness around them. Keith shouts something unintelligible, before the final ship upturns in a shroud of fire and dust.

In the distance, the last light blinks out.

_In His Gentle Soul, Part Three_

_In Altea, spring begins slowly._

_Wandering like a child, brushing its fingertips across horizons as it passes, leaving streaks of color on the clouds. It is careful, hesitant, ambling along mossy paths, scaling the barks of trees, nipping at vines and curling amongst the branches. It basks in the sun, reaching, rolling, stretching out its tired limbs among mosaics of dancing grasses. It lays and is still, breathing the aromas of pollen and nectar, tenderly lifting the creatures of the air with tufts of gentle breeze._

_The spring is gentle with its creatures. The flowers brush against his feet, petals shifting, framing a trimmed path, which leads to an enchanting home of towering height, like something out of a dream._

_A small distance away, within a stride’s reach, a woman sits on the porch, marble skin flushed from the chilled wind. Her hair flows about her in hues of muted yellow, layers drifting to her waist and framing her chiseled cheeks, giving her the appearance of a nymph, an angel. She does not speak, hands relaxed upon her lap, and despite the breeze, not a thread of her draping dress shifts nor a strand of her hair tickles her face. Her eyes are blurred by the bright sunshine—they might be golden, or perhaps a hue similar. Above, a wind chime rings in gentle tones, echoing hollowly, greeting him. Next to the woman is his empty rocking chair, which creaks despite its lack of him._

_He calls for her, but the breath that tumbles from his lips is soundless. His feet are caught in the mud of the garden, his boots are clogged and sinking fast. The rocking chair creaks, and like the shifting flower beds, moves in the sluggish way that stones sink through water, transcending time. He calls for her again, but she seems much farther than before._

_He says the name of a faceless girl, one already lost through time, asking for her to wait—but she is fading with the prismatic buds of the flowers, blotchy on the canvas, blending together in a muddled mess. The flames lick against the grass, almost teasingly; he’s caught fire in an unfamiliar place where the sky isn’t blue and the ground beneath his feet isn’t lush or verdant, where his wrists snap and his fingers tangle, where he loses himself like the branches lose their leaves, unnoticeably, silently._

_And_ she _—her golden eyes, so foreign yet so familiar, melt into the sky, dance in the distance, engulf the horizon with shimmering streaks of flame._

_In His Brittle Bones, Part One_

The pods glimmer in the low lighting. The paladins had requested they set the castle to a more earth-like schedule, with days, nights, and the like; consequently, it is night now. So the room glows a soft blue, and seems to shimmer as if displayed through glass. It may be the fault of the stars, which meander beyond the windows; little specks of light reaching for something, anything, millions of miles away.

Lance, despite the late time, is still chattering with a boisterous grin. The paladins’ recent mission had them spiraling out into space in a panic, then landing on a planet full of lush jungles and spindly trees. Hunk had found a way out of it, Lance explains, while Pidge had managed to contact the castle from the ground, incredible, really; though, from a few side comments from the blue paladin that seemed a little withdrawn Coran deduced that Lance had done nothing at all.

Lance says, “I don’t think I’m made for this paladin stuff.”

Coran hums, scrubbing the pods with a bristled brush. It leaves streaks upon the sheets of lightweight metal, dripping with sloppy droplets and splatters of suds.

“I mean,” the boy continues, “Hunk, Pidge, Keith, and Shiro are like, _made_ for this, but I’m just—”

There’s a heavy inhale, followed by a solemn sigh.

“You have lots of time, my boy,” Coran states hurriedly, “There is lots of time.”

_In His Brittle Bones, Part Two_

Coran thinks that nothing can truly come close to Earth’s beauty. Or at least, that is what Lance insists is true; Coran has never seen Earth for himself, after all. Coran watches Lance: the boy’s eyes are alight with the soft glow of the holographic image, which spins like Earth, which is shaped like Earth, which, despite it’s realistic qualities, is distinctly _not_ Earth.

Lance tells Coran about his family. There are so many stories: Lance rambles about siblings Coran may never meet, Lance tells of crystal beaches and rainstorms and jumping in puddles with polka-dotted boots; Lance describes a place called Cuba in the summer: biking along the shoreline, wispy winters and drizzly springs; Lance tells him his worries, his parents, his cousins, whether the kids still ask where he is—

Something beeps, timidly. There are soft hands on Coran’s back, which push him away gently. They withdraw and Coran wonders if they had ever been there at all.

The room implodes.

A shockwave rockets the air, sending Coran off his feet and tumbling across the concrete, in a whirlpool of wind and fire. The world seems to be a bursting storm of explosion, flames licking at the sky. Coran’s ears ring and scream. Or perhaps they're just ringing, and someone is screaming—the alarms shrill in pitchy tones, drowning out the sounds of his short breaths.

He attempts to inhale but dust fills his mouth, making him hack up what little he had eaten that morning. He drags himself away from his pile of sick, groaning, head spinning. His arms twitch, trembling weakly as he scrambles for his bearings. Once he regains a kneeling position, he quivers dangerously due to nauseous vertigo, throat stinging from acidic bile. He crawls, knees torn open along with most of his suit, but grunts when pressure is put on his wrist. Engulfing the surface of the top of his right hand is a angry crimson gash, blood oozing gruesomely, his glove lost in the fray. He’d have to ask Lance to make him new ones. Lance. _Lance_.

“Lance,” Coran calls, but his voice is croaking and wobbling.

Coran attempts to observe the world around him, but it is tinged red, the color soaking in his vision, blinding him. Twisting in the bay are shimmering golds, which mix with the crimson like a mockery of dawn, sun-kissed cheeks, his wife’s eyes, or perhaps something in between. His mind unravels like poorly-knotted cotton, slippery, quickly. Someone is calling his name, he thinks—but he might be dreaming it; he’s been dreaming too much, nowadays.

His nails scratch the marble. He stumbles to his feet, mind losing focus faster than a child at a funfair, Only there is no fun, only fear, as the world crumbles around him. He clutches at his wrist, scanning his surroundings with growing anxiety, eyes flitting about in a panic, but he only discovers rubble, screeching consoles and _fire_ , so much _fire_ —

"Lance," he rasps to the void.

_In His Brittle Bones, Part Three_

Lance’s head lolls, and falls forward, before it is lifted upward again, in droopy, repetitive nods; he struggles to keep himself awake.

Lance says, “I feel like I’m dying,”

The scan results aren’t bad, of course they aren’t. A few burns, broken ribs. Just Lance being dramatic again, that’s all, that’s all. But the bruises beneath the boy’s eyes are tinged the same engulfing blue of earth’s oceans, too stiffening calm, too hauntingly suppressed, too endlessly deep.

“You’re not,” Coran states, but his voice breaks, so he repeats it, firmer. “You’re not.”

Lance exhales a heavy breath, and for a terrible, fleeting moment Coran thinks it is his last. Instead, the boy speaks, with cracked lips, irritated and bloody, as if bitten away.

“I know,” Lance laughs, then smiles, a sheepish, frail little thing.

The alarm beeps in a muted tone. The glass of the pod hesitantly slides over him, then closes with a click. Lance is lost to sleep.

Coran watches him in silence, scratching the bandages on his hand mindlessly. Blood seeps through, yet he pays it no mind.

Lance must’ve been a swimmer, once. Coran can tell, despite not encountering many land-walking swimmers in his lifetime. Of course, there were lakes in Altea, though they were nothing like the oceans of Earth. However, Altea’s waters were dangerous, rushing whirlpools that youths would race across during a few weeks of the summer. Those who dared to cross the treacherous waters where long-limbed, with lean muscle that stretched taut across hollow bones. They were fit, and quite beautiful, skin browned and kissed by Altea’s twin suns.

Coran could almost see the boy, racing across the shore, whooping and hollering, flaunting his muscles to the women on the sand. Coran can almost hear him, chuckling, splashing about in the shallows—Coran is sure the boy would’ve been quite the swimmer—diving beneath white-tipped waves, hands twisting and pushing against the tides.

In the blue light, all of Lance shimmers. His hair is the color of ripe chestnuts and the russet limbs of towering trees; his skin is the shade of tawny shores stretching across endless horizons. Coran thinks of the youths who competed in the rivers, but none looked quite like Lance. Lance is something else, something almost heavenly, something almost angelic—Lance looks like an angel, but angels, in fact, are dead.

Coran breaths, and realizes he had stopped for a while. His lungs fill with that painful burn that told he had been drowning in thin air, but beneath his ribcage the cold still slinks through in sheets of icy waves, and his tongue rubs against the roof of his mouth, tasting the bitterness of a long-forgotten dream.

_In His Fragile Heart, Part One_

_Allura sleeps without worry, her sliver, almost pearly tresses strewn about her in prepossessing waves. She rests so gently, her forehead untouched by creases or the weathering of age. She, too, is a child, though just barely. The pod closes and she is lowered into the ground, until it is just him and Alfor and the fire in the sky._

_Suddenly there is a weary fatigue in Coran’s bones, almost bringing him to the floor, though strong arms keep him steady, the smell of aged wine and a hint of—pollen, perhaps. Alfor watches the world burn with those opal eyes of his, looking somewhere far in the distance, with that forward determination Coran can’t quite understand. Coran’s lids flutter, just slightly. He knows this spell, the one that brings giants and warriors alike to their knees in exhaustion. He knows what Alfor will do. They both know, and they watch each other, waiting._

_The flames in the sky make the king look enchanting, like a hero in a story. A story Coran would tell to his unborn child. The explosions ring in his ears. He hasn’t seen eyes so gold, not in a long time._

_Alfor says, “Take care of her.”_

_The pod closes before Coran can reply._

_In His Fragile Heart, Part Two_

Coran wakes with bile in his mouth.

There is something familiar, there, in the sweat on his brow and his irregular panting breaths. Familiar, because, with age, the dreams cultivate in his mind, tangle in his thoughts. As he grows older, things become more clear to him, as if he is scrubbing the dirtied glass on a window. Someday soon _—_ when he finally leaves this universe with a guiltless heart _—_ he will be able to look inside.

He scrambles upward from his crumpled spot on the floor, stumbling in an intoxicated manner. He trips over his quivering limbs into the bathroom, and clutches the marble rim of the sink, spitting once, twice, three times, until his mouth is much too dry to spit anymore.

When the blur fades from his eyes and everything looks less like a watercolor painting, he can make out a collection of numerous objects strewn across the bathroom counter, in odd glass bottles with gleaming crystal caps. Skin products—Coran certainly doesn’t own this many, but Lance does. _Lance_ does. So why are they here?

Coran treads wearily into the room, eyeing the white walls and dim blue lights. It is distinctly Lance’s room, with the boy’s trademark jacket strewn across the bed; however, despite that, the space is hauntingly empty. There is nothing that screams of the blue paladin’s presence but a scuffed brown notebook near the pillow and a thin blanket tucked neatly around the mattress, as if recently made.

Coran observes the empty room: untouched, exactly how Lance had left it the day before. Coran must’ve fallen asleep on the uncarpeted tiles, he deduces, based on the stinging soreness in his back and neck. How odd.

His gaze trails to the bed again, and the square object on the pillow. Coran has seen that notebook often, peeking out of Lance’s pocket, held beneath the boy’s nose as he scoured its contents—also, it was left in the common room on numerous occasions. In those instances, Coran returned the possession, to his fond exasperation and Lance’s embarrassment. Coran had thumped the boy on the shoulder and laughed, praising him for his use of a _journal_ , as the boy had so called it, despite the other paladins teasing him for it. Lance had smiled, and started chuckling, eventually.

Coran picks it up and holds it in his hands, tracing the edges with his fingertips. The book is worn and well-loved, with the color fading and the spine crumbling, each part marked up in some way, shape, or form. Even the corners are dented by accidental encounters with the floor. A page is loose, and pulls free with Coran’s gentle touch. He freezes, before hastily opening to journal, snatching the paper off the floor to return it beneath the cover.

The notebook is full of Lance’s loopy scrawl. Coran flips to the desired page, daring not to pry, and moves to place the paper back. Though, something stops him.

 _Elena_ , the pages read.

Coran looks at the ink-blotched letters, tracing the name with hesitant hands. _Elena_ , it reads, _Elena_. The name is scrawled across the paper in uneven lines, as if written absentmindedly, in a repetitive habit. In a few instances, it spirals off the page, only to appear again, running in another paragraph of repeats. Some are sloppy, some are written in neat script. A girlfriend, perhaps? A sister? It continues from each paragraph to the next, a song with one lyric, a story with one word.

 _Elena_ , the final word reads, in the shaky, misshapen handwriting of a child.

_—she makes the best_ nudos de ajo _, Elena, my mamá—_

Coran places the slip back and closes the notebook, ignoring the minute quiver of his fingertips.

_In His Fragile Heart, Part Three_

Coran knows, as all do, what his name is.

Letters fit together like bricks. he knows how to spell his name, he knows how to write it. He knows, as all persons do, how to stack his words together—you stack them, but you might break a finger or two.

Words are heavy.

He has a heavy name.

In Altean, Coran means _boy of bravery_. He means _warrior of the fields_ , he means _carrier of the house_. Yet Altean, the language of the dead, is useless, as there are only two in existence who know it. And in All-Speak his name is simply a name, despite its heaviness. No one will know that the boy abandoned his home in cowardice, the warrior has no more fields to protect, the father has no more house to carry. No one will know.

Not even Lance, the all-caring, all-encompassing warmth, the strong boy that Coran always longed to be, will ever realize the heaviness of the name. Yet perhaps that is a good thing—this awful weight is not something Coran would wish upon anyone.

So they converse in All-Speak, as they always do, mindless chatter and reminiscent stories, until Coran cannot bear to remember anymore, and falls silent.

Lance hums as he works, whistles through pursed lips, letting a lyric slip through every so often, something that sounds like a color, or perhaps a flower, or perhaps the name of a young child. Lance is by no means a wonderful singer—he is frequently off tune and the mix of whistling and humming is never quite right, but it’s a nice sentiment on days when Coran is too miserable to open his mouth.

Though All-Speak is an ugly sort of language, and though Coran finds the smooth vowels of his native Altean more pleasant on the ears, the way Lance speaks is enchanting, somewhat. Even more so is the boy’s home language, which rolls from his mouth on occasion, sounding like a song, chipper tones and rolling _‘r’_ s—the switch is always on accident; however, Coran never reprimands him for it, as _Spanish_ is so mystifying to him. In those accented letters and phrases are whispers that remind him: yes, there is more than just _someone_ , yes, he has not seen the whole of the universe, there is more to experience than just heavy names and inconsolable, bitter nostalgia towards each and every thing.

It is easier now, though. To, instead of rub on one spot on the wall, move along to each part, and clean even the windows, which he so regularly avoids in fear of the abyss beyond them. It is easier now, knowing Lance is beside him, singing in that beautiful language of his.

Lance finishes his humming slowly, as if waiting for someone to catch up. Apparently, they never do, because the singing stops as soon as it had begun, and there is only silence and Coran’s stilted breaths. Staring at his own reflection in the pristine glass, Coran realizes, quite abruptly, that he is crying; little pearly droplets trail into the bushy mustache his wife always used to make fun of—the days she hummed ballads on the porch, laughing as he twirled his fingers through her hair—the humming, that’s what it is. Lance sounds like her, just a little.

“I wish my wife had been chosen instead,” Coran mentions, before he can stop himself, “Instead of me.”

Lance dips the rag into the bucket, before bending over and twisting the cloth in his hands. Suds emerge as he squeezes, dripping over his tanned wrists and plopping back into the water from whence they came. He straightens up, and for the longest moment, rubs at a smudge on the glass. When it does not disappear, he rubs a little harder.

“There’s a music festival in my neighborhood every year.” Lance mentions. “It’s so loud. You’d like it.”

The soap bubbles as Lance scrubs, slipping down the glass and blurring the stars. His hands, like Coran’s, are raw, pink at the tips, calloused near the edges from hours of combat. They aren’t as soft anymore.

“I wouldn’t know,” Coran murmurs wetly, “I’ve never been.”

Lance takes his damp forefinger, and in loopy strokes, writes the name of someone unknown on the canvas of the window. _Elena,_ Coran’s mind supplies.

Lance gazes out at the view in weary acceptance. His finger squeaks against the glass. The water that had been smeared drips down, uselessly.

Lance says, “I’ll show you, someday.”

_In His Trembling Hands, Part One_

In these moments, Lance stays painfully still, sprawled out on the cot, watching the ceiling of the medbay with his half-lidded gaze, as Coran spreads circles of cream on the burn stretching across his forearm. It is a beacon on his olive skin, angry, irritated, red. Coran traces the edges with his fingertips and wonders if it feels like fire. Or perhaps even ice. Coran can rarely tell the difference, nowadays.

“Tell me a story.” Lance whispers.

A story. Coran always has a story to tell. His life has been so long. Perhaps he should tell Lance about the branches that swept across Altea’s forests, or the time he piloted his first ship. Perhaps he should tell Lance about the wife who waited diligently at home, scrubbing pots and pans, whistling dainty tunes.

His wife. It’s been a little too long, hasn’t it? She’s probably grown impatient, waiting. The flowers framing the porch will grow wild without him there to trim them. He’ll get back as soon as he can. He must. The castle’s too pristine for him to clean and he doesn’t have any excuses anymore—oh, when he gets home, he’ll bring her flowers. Ones bright like sunshine, that match her hair. Then they’ll hold each other on the grass and watch the sky. The clouds were on fire, last he saw—purple lights and blood stains and screaming, _screaming_ —what color was the sky again?

A story. Coran’s told lots of stories, with over-exaggerated details, dramatic gestures and gleaming grins, and—and the answer comes to him like distant church bells, ringing over some unnamed funeral, a gentle affirmation of the abyss growing beneath him; he feels himself fall from the sky slowly, voluntarily, and stare with wide eyes at the disappearing world of flame. Coran realizes, with grieving finality—

“I don’t have any good ones.”

Lance chuckles, so soft it might of not been there at all. Staring distantly into the geometric patterns of the ceiling above him, his face is drawn in disbelief, amusement.

“Oh, c’mon, Coran,” the boy smiles teasingly, the blue lights glimmering across his pearly teeth, “Tell me a fairy tale. Alteans have those, right?”

Coran is silent, bandaging Lance’s arm with careful precision, pressing down on the gauze and pretending he doesn’t see the boy wince.

“At home,” Lance continues, hazy eyes trained upward, “we start our stories with _once upon a time_.”

Coran wraps the strip of bandage once more around, and clips it in place, before hands fall, useless. He watches the rising and falling of Lance’s chest, counting his breaths, taken often but much too slowly. Lance twitches his fingers. _Once upon a time,_ is that what he said? An odd phrase. Coran’s vision is a bit blurry. Lance’s fingers twitch once more—the boy’s nails are broken, Coran realizes.

 _Once upon a time,_ Coran thinks, was a long time ago. A long time ago, when inhaling and exhaling wasn’t as painful, when children didn’t write their mother’s names in paragraphs along their spindly wrists, like blotchy, inky veins. _Once upon a time,_ Coran thinks, was a fantasy.

Yet he begins his tale, with all the exuberance he can muster, and wishes to his fake gods, broken memories, and heavy name that Lance’s hands will one day be soft again.

“Once upon a time, there was a boy with the strength of a lion and the heart of a warrior, who set out to save the world—”

_In His Trembling Hands, Part Two_

And Lance saves the world—

_In His Trembling Hands, Part Three_

And Lance saves the world but it’s not _his_ world, not the earth of shimmering aquamarine, verdant lush forests, stretches of golden sands, towering mountains with frosty tips—so he exits his lion with gentle, moderate satisfaction, hidden by the paling skin stretching across his sharp cheekbones and the craters sagging beneath his eyes. Coran watches him, the boy, the child—he was a child, once, wasn’t he? It had been a few years since then—stride towards Allura with clinking boots and clenched palms, helmet tucked beneath his arm.

Hunk and Pidge aren’t watching him like Coran is, chattering their usual techno-jargon, though Pidge is mentioning sending a holographic message to her brother—oh, her brother, she had found him, what a beautiful thing family is—perhaps Coran could meet Lance’s family someday, the one he always rambles about so fondly; Lance’s hand’s aren’t getting any softer.

Yet, Allura doesn’t seem to watch him either, not like Coran does. Maybe Coran’s going a bit crazy. He wouldn’t be surprised, not really. He’s been crazy for a long time—he’s lost in his thoughts again. Coran stares at Lance, whose eyes are trained on Allura; Allura is looking somewhere far in the distance, with that forward determination Coran can’t quite understand.

Lance says, “Your wish is my command, princess,” like always, but he isn’t smiling. Coran doesn’t know when, but at some point, he had stopped.

Lance hasn’t smiled for a few weeks, probably. Or perhaps a few months. Time is a blur in wars like these.

**Author's Note:**

> damn, this was meant to be a character study but it spiraled out of hand..i wrote most of it around the release of season two so it’s kinda outdated in some sections? i liked the “hopeless” feel to it though so i didn’t change much and instead added more on. i picked it back up again with bountiful motivation after reading boyghost’s story: [This House Unfinished.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7656958) this formatting comes from them, by the way, so i must give credit where credit is due!
> 
> [follow me on tumblr if you want :)](http://lyn-spire.tumblr.com/)


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